Some beasts die without sound ;
and I remember reading Neruda with the blinds down wishing, praying for intoxication -
being drunk somehow connects the lines of lunacy and sweetens the bitterness of my own  biology.


And there in the middle of my average volitility,
was Neruda - shining, scintillating, brimming with fanciful words that mocked my sard, sorry inability to get out of...